Too School for Cool

Two weeks ago was 'Back to School' for my children and most of the other kids in the state of Minnesota.  While it wasn't punctuated with the normal crisp Fall back to school weather there was still the smell of new folders and the sharp pencil leads and composition notebooks.  I love notebooks.  All kinds.  And if there is one thing people can count on to make it feel like back to school again it's my Facebook statuses and countdowns.  This year I had people filling in the meme blanks for me, tagging me in photos or posting on my timeline.  I didn't even have to Google for anything.

This year I got the impression from many people that they truly believe I don't want my children around.  It started to have a real negative connotation and frankly put a major buzzkill on my Back to School festivities.

And festivities there have been.  In the past we've celebrated with high fives at the bus stop.  I've had standing first day of school coffee dates with a friend every year.  I've had back to school cocktails and first week of school sushi lunch dates.  I've even threatened to make a man out of that bus driver a time or two. This year I had a long coffee date with an old coworker from the gym. There's always some way to celebrate.

The truth is, aside from my time as an employee at the gym, I have been self-employed for seventeen years.  I've run my own business at home since around my one year wedding anniversary, partly due to some changes that were taking place at the company that I worked at but mostly because I knew we would someday have children. I thought it was a good time to try for a career that I could have at home while caring for babies.

I did very well the first few years.  Work was abundant.  Setting my own hours was perfect and I had plenty of time to spend with my husband.  About three years later we decided to move to another home so that we'd have room for a family.  The work load was still great but I struggled with staying focused during this time.  I like to call these The eBay Years.  How else was a girl supposed to find everything she didn't know she needed for her new home?  It's not like Amazon was invented yet.

Not long after this I did manage to get pregnant with our first child.  Enter the Pregnancy Website Months, Motherhood Books Weeks and Babies'R'Us, the mecca of all things baby and time wasting.  My expanding uterus had no interest in getting any work done and I struggled with taking advantage of the busy season.  Dumb move since it was the last season I'd ever have with uninterrupted work.

My oldest son was born at the end of December in the year 2000.  My line of work is usually fairly slow from Thanksgiving till New Years as people are focusing on the holidays rather than new construction.  But come January, the impending Spring building season has everyone clamoring to get their blueprints ready.  I remember working two weeks after he was born, via c-section I might add, sneaking drafting time during naps when I should have been sleeping myself.  Rigging a musical toy over a Pack N Play next to my desk so I could get more work in.  Nights.  Weekends. Any possible moment I could steal away because we couldn't afford for me not to work and at that point daycare made no financial sense.

I got pregnant again when my son was 8 months old.  If I thought working at home was tough before it was nothing compared to having two babies.  The days that I got them both to nap at the same time I thought I was Anne Sullivan, the damn Miracle Worker.  When my toddler dropped a nap I was reduced to the ultimate shameful mom practice of letting him watch tv while I worked.  Still I wasn't making enough money.  I wasn't keeping the house clean.  I had my husband pick up take-out a little too often.  Mom of the Year I wasn't.

When you are going to have kids you are faced with a big decision as a mother.  Do I keep going to work or do I stay at home?  It's a tough one and there are pros and cons to both.  But there is a third species and it's called a WAHM.  Work at home mom - it seems like the answer.  What could be better than staying at home with your little bundle and still bringing in money?  Everything.  All the other options are better than working from home when you have young ones.  I would encourage you to please, please choose one of the other two options.  Trust.

There is never enough work done.  The house is never clean enough.  You never spend enough "quality time" with the kids.  Dinners are half-hazard things you can throw together, assuming you have groceries because no one wants to go to the store with two babies.  (Seriously, my first outing by myself with a 17 month old and a newborn resulted in the toddler puking all over himself and the baby shitting all the way up his back to his hair.  Both requiring car seats to be hosed down.  I went home, cleaned everyone up, wept and vowed never to leave my house again.  Ever.)  Showering was completely optional and being romantic with my husband?  Pffffffttt Whatever.  Pretty standard SAHM troubles but throw work deadlines in and it's a hot mess.

I was pretty much failing at ever aspect of every one of my jobs.  WAHM's are spread so thin all the time (not to say that SAHM mom's aren't.  It's tough all around.) that they pretty much suck at everything.  Or maybe it was just me.  Maybe I couldn't hack it.  This may come to a surprise to you and you may want to sit down but...  I'm not really the Earth mother type.

I did have a nanny two days a week for a year or so in the form of my niece and she helped immensely.  But I'll be honest and tell you that it's still tough to run a business from home with the sounds of tag and Play-doh in the house.  Not to mention the kids still knew I was there, hiding away in my office, and I would easily fall pray to my control issues and step in whenever I heard my niece struggling.

And then... School (cue angels singing)

School is the WAHM's wet dream.  School is the answer to all her prayers.  School means she can get work done during the day and still be a mom at night.  School means not having to choose who gets more of her attention during those work hours and not feeling the guilt that is bound to go with either decision.  School is my air.  By the time I had both kids in school I really thought I'd made it.  But I forgot about one thing.

Summer.

This Summer was particularly tough.  I had an enormous work load.  And with both boys and my husband (yeah, he works at home, too - how's that for fucking togetherness) with me 24/7 it was constant chaos.  I would like very much to plan all kinds of activities for my boys. I would love to take them on fantastical fieldtrips to museums and parks and playdates and waterparks and the zoo.  I would love to even send them to some camps so they could have fun with friends but they won't go anymore.  Unfortunately I can't do all these things.  I have a business and when you are self-employed and there's actually work to be had you just don't say no.  You never know when the next dry spell will be.

Working from home in the Summer makes me feel more inept as a mother than anything I do.  The mom guilt is overwhelming and the resulting shame of not being good enough tears me down daily.  I know I'm not the first mother to have mom guilt but we, and by we I mean all of mom-hood, don't really talk about it.  I promise you this, though.  Any mom who says she doesn't have mom guilt is lying through her box of wine.

With all the guilt of being a shitty mom, a shitty money earner and a shitty wife it's really hard to spread myself any thinner.  So instead I got fatter.  I know I when I wrote in June I said I hadn't gained any weight over the last year since leaving my job at the gym.  Yeah, that's no longer true.  I've gained weight like it's my job the last couple of months and apparently that's the one job I can do even with all the distractions.  I haven't had a gym membership and I've literally had no time to take care of myself fitness-wise.

But you know what?  I did my best.  Could I get up and go for a run at 5am to make sure I got my workout in before I started my day as super mom / wife / drafter?  Bwahahahahhahaa  No.  I can't.  And I know that about myself.  What I couldn't do after feeling like I already was the worst mom ever for an entire Summer was go and leave them in the evening to get my workout in.  I did the best I possibly could to take care of my work obligations and my family and it came at a little expense to myself but that's the way it is.  And I'm at peace with that.   It's a small sacrifice to make to be able to work at home with no pants on.

I have a new gym membership that I started attending during the first week of school.  I had my shiny new padlock and my shiny new gym shoes.  It was my own "first day of school" where I knew no one and couldn't figure out where to go.  But I've got 9 months of homework to do as I take advantage of having the time and freedom to take care of myself and relieve a little stress before it starts all over again.  It's a fair trade.

So I survived.  And I celebrated.  And it doesn't mean that I don't love my kids or that I don't want them around, regardless of what my Facebook friends may think. I've more than paid my mom dues over the years.  I just can't be everything to everyone at the same time without the guilt.   And if that means I have to let taking care of myself fall to the wayside a little during the Summer then so be it.   Back to School is, I think, the Universe saying "You did well.  You survived, you are a great mom and you shall be rewarded greatly for your efforts."

Of course then I got knocked-on-my-ass sick for more than week immediately after school started.  I'm still sick. Well played, Karma.  Well played.  I see what you did there.

Liar Liar, Pants on Fire

So...um... it seems we need to talk.  I haven't been completely honest.  I know since I've started this blog we've talked a lot about the F (fat) word and I've lead you to believe a few things about myself.  I'm here to confess today even if it means losing a little credibility in that department.  So here goes.

I'm a liar. 

I've told you that I have battled my weight my entire life.  That I was a fat kid and that I have always struggled.  I've told clients that I don't really remember ever being a normal weight.  And then my aunt decided to text me, probably in a drug induced pain medication stupor, an old picture a few days ago.  "You weren't fat, Cass.  Here's the proof."

See that girl on the right with the purple terry cloth tank top, skinny legs and massively thick hair that looks like a brown football helmet?  Yeah, that's me.  Normal sized.

The picture has to be before 5th grade so at most I'm 9 here.  Other than the obvious lack of puberty I can tell the timeline because we are on my grandmother's driveway.  Two of my uncles, an aunt and my future uncle-in-law are visible.  I can't be sure if it's before or after the time I fancied myself a skate boarder and took that skate board to the top of the hill in our neighborhood, though given the amount of skin I still have on my arms I'm guessing it's before.  I also see my grandmother's future step-daughter in the picture which means it won't be long before my entire family moves away and I go to another school where I know no one.  Also, I think I see a thumb-war going on but that's neither here nor there.  The entire point is that for at least 9 years in my life I was of a normal weight.

My aunt has made me the Milli Vanilli of bloggers.  Girl, you know it's true.

My first reaction to the picture was, "Wow, I actually was skinny at one point."  My next reaction was tears.  Keep in mind that I had just been through an excruciating work week of probably 65-70 hours at my computer.  I had a bit of a breakdown last week while feeling overwhelmed with my job, kids and my general lack of caring for myself properly.  I haven't been eating the greatest.  I've certainly had no time to workout in forever. (Or, more accurately, I should say I haven't taken the time away from my other obligations.) This breakdown happened the night before I was to have my 5 month follow up appointment with my surgeon and knowing how little I've cared for myself lately and how abhorrent the idea of taking off my clothes for "after" pictures was for me I broke down and said some horrible things to myself in front of my husband.  One of these things was calling myself a "fat fuck" which makes me a double liar now because I promised to not talk that way to myself anymore.

So anyway, it's been a shitty couple of weeks.  But the reason I teared up when I saw the picture is that I saw my battle with weight as a betrayal to my body that started as a normal, healthy size.  I did this to me.  I wasn't always like this.

It's funny how skewed our own views can become of our bodies.  Being overweight has become such a prominent part of my life, such a huge element in how I think and feel and remember things that I have actually created a prequel to my fat in my own head that never existed.  For the most part I can tell you my weight from almost every year of my life.  Except for the ones where I wasn't overweight.  Huh.  I wonder why that is?

I can tell you that when my extended family moved away and my mom and I moved to another home that this is where my weight gain started.  I'm guessing I felt the absence of the only family I had ever known, my equivalent to brothers and sisters, and the pressure of starting at a new school.  I stayed inside with my great-grandmother after school and watched game shows with her and I must have snacked a lot though I don't remember doing so.  I do remember being weighed in school a year later in 6th grade and being horrified and embarrassed of my weight , I think for the first time, when it was read aloud and charted. 103.5 lbs, 5'-0".  I was over one hundred pounds?  None of the other girls were.

No wait.  I do remember the first time I was ever aware of my weight being a problem.  It was the summer before 6th grade so a full year after everyone moved.  My mom sent me out to visit my family in South Dakota for several weeks.  It was a trip full of fun and new adventures and some terrifying things for this suburban girl suddenly living out in the woods of the Black Hills.  But one of the things I remember most (other than falling about 12 feet out of a tree house, camping out in a lean-to on a hill and seeing my first and only Sturgis motorcycle rally) was playing "spy" with my uncle, Dereck, who is 12 days younger than me and was like my brother. He had rigged up some walkie-talkies so that one was in the "talk" position and hid it in his mother's (my grandmother's) room.  What he didn't know is that she was in there talking to a friend about me.  I listened to her say, "Well, I'm glad Cassidy finally grew in to her head but I didn't expect her to get THAT big so fast."  That's my first real memory of being ashamed of my size.  I don't know why, in later years, I've assumed my shame about my weight went farther back than that.  And, yes, I did have a large head. Still do.  These brains take up a lot of space and this hair wouldn't fit on a tiny head.

I don't think I ever have a really clear idea of what I really look like.  I'm always skewing it somehow.  Sometimes I think I'm looking like hot shit and then I'll see a picture of what I really looked like that night and scare the crap out of myself.  Is this like a reverse body dysmorphia?  Most of the time I think I look worse than I do and that I look much bigger than I do.  I'm kind of ashamed to admit this but as I was losing weight I would make my husband play a game with me whenever we went out.  It was kind of a "Is she bigger or smaller than me?" game except no one really wins.  I wasn't asking to put other women down.  I was truly trying to change the picture in my head because to me I was and always would be 308 lbs.  My brain had so much catching up to do to match my shrinking body and sometimes this game helped.  Sometimes it didn't (see previous "hot shit" days).  The one who consistently lost the game was probably my husband.  Poor guy.

Now you don't even need to play the game with someone else.  If you really want to see a plethora of body shapes and sizes at your weight you can go to My Body Gallery, type in your stats and see women from all over the world.  The idea is that seeing all the variety that there is in the world will help women see their own bodies more clearly and I think it could be useful as long as you don't get down on yourself for not looking like some of the women there.  Interesting note: when I put all my information in I got "No Results Returned".  We aren't going to talk about that right now.

There is a name for this skewing and it's called "Normative Discontent" or body image dissatisfaction.  It's the little sister to Body Dysmorphic Disorder and it's often fueled by unrealistic expectancies, pressure in the media to look a certain way and eating disorder-type thinking.  I think it's just a fancy name given to what almost all women and a lot of men struggle with regarding their own self-image.

About an hour after my aunt sent me the "skinny" picture an old Weight Watcher friend of mine posted the only "full body" picture of herself.  She posted it because it was taken with a dear friend of hers and she wanted to share it, albeit with reservation.  She said "after a grievous refatting a few years ago" she had a "lot invested in not letting anyone see how bad I really look."  She also spoke of shame and you know that's a hot button for me.  She said, "This is me and my gorgeous friend. I'm the fat one."  But you know what?  She looked normal to me.  Skinny?  No.  Normal?  Healthy?  Happy?  Beautiful?  Yes.  My favorite part was when one of her friends said, "your body doesn't match how you often portray yourself as some freaking linebacker with the body dimensions of a refridgerator."  She totally nailed her on that one.  That's exactly how she speaks about herself.

And then I realized that's exactly how I speak about myself, too.  And her posting that full-body picture really put my own little picture freak out in perspective.  

I've been actively trying to change the way I think about my body.  I really have - I'm not lying about that.  I work on my inner dialogue.  I am careful of what information ends up in my inbox and I'm following some fantastic women online that are in synch with my current goals of body acceptance. I've worn a two-piece swimsuit *gasp* to a public water park.  I wore a dress that I believed was too short for me and that I had no business wearing because I don't have nice legs.  I've worn heels with god damned ankle straps, people!  I'm trying to step out of the box I've put myself in because of my weight.  I plan to do things and wear things and say things that I never thought I was entitled to because of my size.  But I'm baby stepping it.  My 39th birthday is next month and I'm working on a bucket list of sorts for my 40th year that includes things I never thought I could do or should do because of how I looked.  I've got a big project planned for myself in August that's really scaring the shit out of me but that's a surprise for later.  But now I see I also have to stop attaching this imaginary fat to every aspect of my life and history as if it is the one thing that defines me and all my experiences and pain.  Because it doesn't, you know.  I am not my weight.  I promise you I will not remember this blog post according to what I weighed today.

So... what have I learned from this picture of my youth?  First, I need to realize that my normal size back then is a good thing.  It means that even though I have compromised my body because of my emotional needs that it still has the ability to maintain a normal, healthy weight if allowed to do so.  It also validates my suspicion that one of my trigger issues has to do with people abandoning or rejecting me, which I just wrote about, and knowing that gets me closer to healing.  I've learned that I don't have to take all my painful experiences and stuff them in a box labeled "fat" as if that's the worst thing I could be.  And lastly, as I look at that picture in my purple tank and lavender track shorts I know this for sure.  I have always had and hopefully will continue to have a "voluptuous backside", as my aunt so loving pointed out.  Vanilla In The Front indeed.

The More You Know...

I haven't blogged in awhile and it's been intentional.  Aside from the last couple of posts I wasn't happy with the direction it was going and I was at a loss on how to get it back on track.  It was whiny and pissy and not at all helpful to anyone and that's not what I want it to be about. In many ways my surgery set me back for a bit but I'm feeling pretty good now and ready to move on and get back to the work at hand.  What were we talking about again?

Oh, yeah.  Retired personal trainer.  Body image.  Vulnerability.  Shame.  Spanx.  Blah. Blah. Blah.

It just so happens that tomorrow is the one year anniversary of me leaving my job as a personal trainer, group fitness instructor and manager at the gym I worked at.  I was a hot mess a year ago - anyone close to me (and some not even so close) can attest to that.  Even four months later when I wrote my first blog I was still in rough shape.

So where am I at one year later?  What have I learned? I've come up with a list, in no particular order.

1. How I speak about myself, especially when I'm alone, is the key to just about everything when it comes to body confidence and recovering from shame.  Actively trying to find things about myself to be grateful for is absolutely necessary.  And I know I am not alone based on the feedback I got from people during my Body Gratitude project.
2. I do not miss working nearly every night outside the home.  But at the same time I can hear a song while driving and miss teaching so much it makes me cry.  I don't know when/if that will go away.  But I'm 99.9% sure I am not going to teach or train again.
3. I think that people that have battled weight issues and body image problems are so very necessary in the fitness world.  They have a perspective when teaching and training that people that have never battled these things do not have and the connection they can make with people because of this is amazing.
4. That being said, based on my own experience if you have a serious issue with weight and food and body image I would think long and hard before I recommended getting into the business.  It's a slippery slope and a difficult image to uphold even if you never have these issues.  If you struggle it can backfire on you.  If anyone is seriously considering a job in fitness and wants me to explain further, feel free to contact me.  Bottom line - if you can't balance taking care of yourself while you bust your ass to care for others - it's not the place for you.
5. Jeans.  They still suck.  Surgery or no, I still can't find a pair of jeans to save my life.  I think my issues are worse than they were before.  Not a damn designer assumes that if you have ass and thighs like mine you will have a flat stomach.  So as far as I can tell this is the truth: Jeans shopping sucks no matter what your size.
6. So have I lost weight in the last year?  I did for a little and now I haven't.  I'm about the same as where I started, aside from what was removed during the surgery.  Some may view this as a failure but I don't. I had a helluva year that seriously broke me emotionally.  Any time this has happened in the past I have gained a considerable amount of weight. To maintain for a year while struggling so much is a big deal for me.  I'm going to chalk that one up as a win.
7. When I left the gym I thought to myself, "I'll show them.  When they see me next I'm gonna be thinner and stronger and ripped and hot...", etc.  Yeah, that didn't happen.  Do you want to know why?  Other than the fact that none of the people that hurt me would have even given a shit nor have they stayed in touch anyway, my desire for "revenge skinny" was impossible.  It can't happen.  Approaching health and weight loss out of anger and frustration and retaliation will never, ever work.  Your body knows better than you when it comes to knowing what motivates you.  I had healing to do before I could even think about changing my body.
8. Can you still change your body while loving it?  I think you can though if I'm being honest I still struggle with it.  I try to focus on stopping the negative thoughts when I think about how I would like to change and focus more on the health aspects.  And I really do miss feeling and looking strong.  The recovery from surgery (and the lack of a routine since then) has really taken it's toll.  I'm ready to get back to it and lift some heavy shit.
9. This:
   
   
10.  I'm not meant to completely avoid any particular food group.  I've tried and I've played with it all year.  It's just not for me.  Whatever you do to lose weight you have to be willing to do forever.  Am I going to have some bread?  Yeah, I am.  *shrugs*  What else will I put my favorite cheese on?  Moral of the story - balance, moderation, focusing on whole foods.  This is what works for me. It worked before and it's what I can maintain. I will no longer vilify any particular food group.  Except cucumbers.  I hate those things.
11. Moisturizer.  Get some.  I've been horrible at skin care for 38 years and I finally got on board.  What a dumbass I've been.  Get thee to the mall.
12. Weight loss or surgery - neither of these will fix you on the inside.  Whatever problems you had before you will have them after.  You'll just look different on the outside.  God, I wish I had a dollar for every time I've had to relearn this.
13. I seriously hate Fitspiration pics.  You know - the Nike-esque pictures with motivational sayings that also happen to include a picture of a woman so graciously sprayed down with fake sweat so as to enhance her nearly perfect, body fat free physique?  Google Fitspo and you'll see what I mean. 
    
    I like most of the messages and I give the people credit for their hard work but I'd venture to guess that 95% of these people are fitness models who have never really battled weight and have a natural ability to build muscle (not everyone can look like that no matter how hard they work and that's the damn truth - a lot of it's genetic).  I am not motivated by pictures of women that I will never in my life look like, no matter how much lifting I do.  And don't get me started on the air brushing.  It's worse than the fashion industry.  Show me real pictures of real people busting their ass and getting REAL sweaty and I'll be inspired.  And who the fuck works out in those outfits? 
14. I'm not always a nice person.  There.  I said it. Recently I found out that my former boss was fired from his current job and for a brief moment I was ecstatic.  I was triumphant.  It was one giant "I told you so"/middle finger and I had won.  But deep down I know this does not really make me feel better.  And I do worry about the financial situation that his family must face.  I need to be better than this because his pain will never truly make me feel better.  My problems are my problems.
15. Sometimes it takes a real asshole to push you to make the decisions you need to make. (see above) (Yes, I know it's not nice to call names.) (I already told you I wasn't a nice person.) (see above) Fact: It was time for me to leave my job.  I wasn't taking care of myself.  I was burned out.  My family was suffering.  I was miserable.  But my sense of obligation to that place, my manager and my friends/clients/class regulars kept me from making the decision I had to make.  I owe the owner a debt of gratitude for pushing me that last little bit that made me gather up the pride and strength I had left and say "peace out".  Thank you.
16. Obagi Pore Therapy Toner.  Get some.
17. Sexy panties really do work wonders.  Even if no one else can see them you know they are there.  Again, get thee to the mall.
18. This one is a doozy and just came to me in the last couple of weeks.  It will take some explaining.  You know how some people can pinpoint what started their weight gain?  Abuse, rape, broken hearts - no wonder people are self-medicating.  I actually think food is the safest way to ease that pain.  It could be so much worse.  I could never figure out what my "thing" was.  I've had some inklings.  I know of some pivotal moments for me but there is no concrete reason.
    
    Then the tornadoes hit Oklahoma, my birth state.  My grandfather still lives there and no one could reach him to find out if he was ok.  In the end I decided to email one of my aunts that hasn't spoken to me in years.  To describe everything that happened between me, her and her younger sister that ended our relationship would take way too long.  Just know that it changed me forever.  I grieved no differently than if they had died.  Maybe worse because I knew they completely rejected me.  Two people that I felt as close to as if they were my sisters.  I promptly slipped into a major depression back then and gained a shit ton of weight.  My highest weight even.
    
    I prepared an email for her to find out what she knew.  They often know more about family goings-on than the rest of us "black sheep" and neglect to tell us anything.  I didn't even know if her email was the same.  It took all I had to hit the send button.  My heart was racing, my stomach sick, tears running down my face.  What if she got my email and didn't respond?  What if she didn't get it and I just assumed she was ignoring me?  What if she actually responded and I had to take down the wall I had so meticulously built up around that part of my heart so I couldn't be hurt again by her?  This was a no win situation and it scared the shit out of me.  But I hit send anyway.  Seconds later I got a text saying Granddad was ok.  Mother fucker!!!  (Not Granddad.  Just the fact that I opened that can of worms when I didn't have to.)
    
    This is my "thing".  And I would venture to guess it's a lot of people's "things".  Rejection. Abandonment. Being ignored. Loss of love and affection.  And it all leads to one place - "I'm not good enough."
    
    A lot of people have wondered why I was still hung up on this gym or the people there.  Why did it still affect me so much?  Why I was still hurt by the loss of a friendship that I thought would last a very long while but virtually disappeared the second I was no longer there to bust my ass?  Why can't I just get over it?
    
    I can tell you it goes back farther than that.  It involves rejection from my father by absence. It includes my grandmother moving away and taking some of the people I cared most about with her. Attending seven different schools between kindergarten and senior year and having to lose friends and make new ones all over again each time. It includes being abandoned by every single one of my friends when I chose to marry the person I'm still with today.  It involves a group of online friends that I love dearly and were pivotal in my weight loss that I lost for reasons I can't exactly explain but I'm sure I'm responsible for at least half of, if not more, for I have developed a nasty habit of pushing people away before they hurt me.  And it includes losing two aunts who were there for me at some of my darkest moments when I lost a pregnancy and battled post-partum depression so severe it almost ended my life.  They just left me.
    
    Leaving the gym scared the shit out of me because I knew it would mean I would lose people again and I didn't know if I was strong enough for it.  And the one person I thought I wouldn't lose I did lose.  And in the defense of everyone from the gym that I felt had hurt me, they didn't know they would have the burden of fending off all my baggage on this issue.  This is my load to carry.  Not theirs.  I have to forgive them for they didn't have the whole picture or know what their actions would do to me.
    
    In the end this is still a success for me on this one year anniversary mark.  It hurt me and it was so hard to lose people again, but I made it through.  Just like I did before.  I'm still here.  Annoying the hell out of you people now.  Maybe I'm starting to get stronger than my "thing".
19. Love first.  Change second. (I ought to trademark the hell out of that)
20. And last but hopefully not least - this:

I'm ready to let it go.  Trainer and instructor - that's all in the past.  I'm just me now.  No one to answer to but myself when it comes to my own body.  It will continue to be a life long battle I'm sure and I'll do my best to write more often and share my experiences for as long as anyone finds it useful or relevant.  And maybe for a while past that as long as it's useful to me.

Oh!  I just thought of one more!

21. I'm kind of a big fucking deal.  And so are you.

Word to Your Mother

It seems I'm destined to have all the biggest, life changing events in my life happen around a holiday.  I lost my first pregnancy on St. Patrick's Day back in 2000.  Over Christmas that same year I had my first son, Ethan.  And a year and a half later I spent Mother's Day weekend in the hospital recovering from my my youngest son's birth.  Eleven years later and I am still splitting that weekend with my son.

This week has been a bear.  I've been behind on work, getting slammed with "to-do" lists and trying to get everything done in time for Sean's birthday.  I ran errands, I bought and wrapped all the presents and I even made him a special Minecraft birthday cake that literally took me all day and then some.  Coincidentally he also picked this week to become the biggest almost-eleven year old turd you've ever seen.  I'm pretty sure I threatened to cancel his birthday at least three times.  Of course I didn't cancel it.  He's my baby and I would do anything for either of my boys (except make a Minecraft cake ever again).  But I'll be damned if I can't wait till they figure out the wisdom in behaving before an upcoming birthday.  Or Christmas.  Or Mother's Day.

Of course you know that I was an angel as a child, right?  That I was so well behaved as to never stress my mother out?  That I brought only joy and laughter and fulfillment to her life?  Yeah, not so much.  I'm assuming that what I am experiencing with my own children can only be the ultimate act of motherly revenge:  Childhood Karma.  But at least I was cute, right?  How could you not love me?

When I was a toddler I was the first to invent the "trust fall".  And by trust fall I mean falling stiff as a board on to my face every time I was told no.  Every time.  My mom would just ignore my tantrum and step right over me and go about her business.  I guess maybe she got concerned the time I finally lifted my head to look up at her and she saw blood streaming down my face from my nose.  I know I'd be concerned - blood is incredibly hard to get out of the carpet!

As I got a little older she developed to new tactic every time I got angry with her or didn't get my way.  She'd calmly look at me and begin to sing with her sweet, soothing voice.  It's a song that, as an adult, I logically realize is one of Joe Cocker's best songs displaying such beautiful intimacy.  But still to this day every time I hear You Are So Beautiful I have an immediate visceral and negative reaction akin to shock therapy.  I can't listen to it.  I just can't.

If you recall from a previous post about my childhood vulnerabilities my mother is quite young.  She still jokes that she and I will eventually be the same age.  It won't really matter when I'm 75 and she's 91 as long as we have someone to wipe our asses, right?  Since she was so young and I was born before the age of "political correctness" she maybe hasn't always said the most motherly things.  I still laugh every time I think of her trying to correct my speech impediment, though.  She swears that it never happened but I'm quite certain my five year old self did NOT make this up.  It was the Summer before I was to start kindergarten and I couldn't say my R's.  She tried to help me.  "Say rrrrrrrrabbit."  "rrrrrrrrrrrrrrWabbit."  "Say Rrrrrrrrrrrobert." "RrrrrrrrrrWobert."  This went on and on till one day, as I stood next to her in the laundry room watching her pull clothes out of the dryer and I tried to say my R's she told me if I didn't figure out how to say them correctly before kindergarten started I would have to ride the short bus to school.  I had it figured out in a week.

Since she was so young we were often more like friends than mother/daughter.  At least in my eyes. Until I hit my teenage years of course.  She was trying to lay down the law with me one day and I wasn't having any of it.  I was a pretty good kid that got my way most of the time because I didn't cause any trouble (other than with my mouth) but I must have done something to trigger her parental side that day.  When she was done talking I held up my chin, looked her straight in the eye and said, "Why are you trying to be a mom now after all these years?"  Honestly, I knew the second those words left my mouth that I wanted them back.  If only I could grab them and shove them back in.  The look on her face confirmed this, of course, but I kept my pride, tossed my hair and turned to walk away from her.  That was my mistake.  If ever you should think of saying something like that to your mother don't turn your back, whatever you do.  Back away slowly and calmly, never forgetting your mother's ninja moves.  She hauled up her foot and kicked me right in the ass, Chuck Norris style, as I walked away.  God, I deserved it.

I tried unsuccessfully for years to get her to pay me for good grades. "Why should I pay you for something you care more about than me?"   When I wanted to get my ears double pierced she said, "Absolutely not!" (And then she went and got a tattoo years and years later.)  As a single mom she worked hard all day just to come home to me where I would inevitably tell her how bored I was and that she should take me somewhere.  I got this: "I'm not your cruise director."  I'm still a little upset that I'm unable to use this one on my own Love Boat-deprived children.  I can, however, use this oldie but goody as much as I like for my own amusement.

I have forgiven her for the first mullet I ever got.  And for making me do my impersonations of Miss Piggy's karate chop or Clyde, the orangutan from Every Which Way But Loose, for her friends.  And for those vacation pictures taken of me in said mullet, a striped tube top and white culottes.

My mother is one of the smartest, funniest women I know.  She's rarely, if ever, wrong. She's my hero for raising me on her own and with her sanity mostly intact, even.  She's also one of my best friends.  I still do everything she tells me to, whether it's a career choice or a book club selection.  If she told me to do it must be right.

As I think about my own children on this Mother's Day weekend I realize they aren't perfect.  But they are mine and they are beautiful.  They are smart and strong, full of humor and sass and energy.  I would do anything for them in the world, including give my own life, because they are worthy of being here just as they are.  I love them with my whole entire being, even on those days that I struggle with liking them a whole lot.  And knowing how I feel about them gives me a glimpse of how I'm sure my mother feels about me.  Of how all mothers feel about their children.

So on this Mother's Day, as you think about how much your mother and your children are worthy of your love, perhaps realize that you need that same amount of love from yourself.  Remember how worthy YOU are, despite whatever imperfections you may have. After all, your mother is never wrong.

 I love you, mom.

Exit the Warrior, Today's Tom Sawyer

It's been almost 10 months since I taught my last group fitness class.  My last class was my Wednesday night spin class - my one true fitness love.  I didn't have a bike that night because class was full (with decorated bikes and balloons no less) but I got just as much out of spending time with the people in my class that night as I would have had I worked out, except I didn't even have to wear a sports bra.

Thinking about my regulars, a couple in particular, helped me "get back on the horse", so to speak, this week.  8 weeks without getting on a spin bike.  I think that's the longest I've gone in 5 years.  I've missed that bike more than I realized and I'm glad I'm getting back to it. However, my crotch is not happy about the reunion.  'Taint happy at all. 

I remember my first spin class like it was yesterday.  I had been working my way up to surviving 45-50 minutes on a bike after being humbled by my personal trainer.  He had put me on a spin bike, cranked the resistance and proceeded to kick my ass.  I wanted to die about 2 minutes in.  I was so mad - I thought after losing 70 lbs on my own I should be able to handle getting on a bike.  I took that anger and did 10 minutes the next day.  Then 15.  Then 20 and so on.  I finally got the balls to show up to class which was completely out of my comfort zone.  Working out with a group?  Talking to people?  Being the only fat girl in a group fitness studio?  Sweating AND being social?  What? (Ok, so anyone who has seen me dancing knows that I'm no stranger to that one.)

I showed up for class and didn't really speak to anyone at first.  The instructor at the time was one of those crazy ladies that remembers half way through class that, oh, there are other people in the room with her and they, in fact, do not have the same death wish that she has.  Super fit, make up on, zero body fat - uber intimidating for someone only half-way through her journey.

I parked my bike next to a very friendly guy named Mike.  It was obvious that he and his wife, Kim, had been attending class for awhile.  They knew what they were doing and were comfortable enough to give the instructor shit - a true mark of feeling at home at the gym.  Mike was very friendly to me without seeming obnoxiously experienced - in fact he was much nicer and more welcoming than the instructor.  I don't know that I would have gone back to class if it wasn't for Mike, let alone became an instructor. 

In the coming months we started a major battle of WWIII proportions.  The fan.  You see, I'm a sweaty bastard.  No way around it.  I was embarrassed by just how sweaty I really was.  I asked my trainer once if I was his sweatiest client.  He smiled and started to give me what I thought was going to be a charming and polite answer to make me feel better.  Instead he said, "No, you're my 2nd sweatiest client.  See Big John over there?  He's the sweatiest."  The only way to combat sweaty-ness of Big John proportions was to slide my bike under one of the only two fans in the whole studio, the one that actually worked well.  Turns out, Mike liked a good fan as well.  It was a race to see who could get under it first.  Sometimes we'd pull into the parking lot at the same time and eye each other from a few stalls away and I could swear I heard the theme song from Clint Eastwood's "Man with No Name" trilogy.  Game on, Mike.  Game on.

Mike did little odd jobs around the gym all the time.  Hung stuff. Fixed bikes. Drilled things.  Too my knowledge he was never compensated.  This is just who he was.  He and Kim were why small gyms are successful.  It's about family and friends and community and the people that care about that small business.

Almost a year to the date from the first time I got on a spin bike I was certified to teach.  On the other side of the room facing the members.  Where there was no fan.  You win, Mike.

I was not the best group fitness instructor there ever was.  Not by half.  I didn't look like an instructor (which I was reminded of by a few disbelieving new members when they showed up to my class for the first time and took a gander at me).  And if you ask me to keep any 4, 8 or 16 count you are out of luck.  Just ask my kickboxing regulars about my warm-ups.  My method when I taught and when I trained was to make sure everyone was having fun.  Because it's not so bad to get your ass kicked if you're having fun, in my opinion.  I did this by making inappropriate jokes, by telling stories about my boys and by getting to know my class regulars really well.  Sometimes too well.  Professional boundaries are not my strong suit and your group fitness instructor should probably not be meeting you for happy hour or ladies nights or dinner out.  She should probably also not host a Pure Romance party and invite all gym members while she is a manager. But I did. Because these were my extended family.  My naughty, dirty extended family. 

The other way I tried to make class fun was by putting a lot of time and energy into my music.  If I was known for anything as an instructor it was probably my music.  I had themes.  I had remixes.  I had genres.  And, by God, I had 8 1/2 minutes of Beyonce - their favorite.  Every song was carefully chosen and choreographed to what I had planned.  You may even say I was anal retentive about it.  I won't argue with you.

If you'd been attending my class long enough you may even have earned a special song by request.  I played a Justin Bieber song once for Tracy that left me watching the studio door, terrified someone in the main gym could hear it.  Christ, I think I even played the Electric Slide for Tracy once as a warm-up.  And let's not forget the time I tried to use Bon Iver in class for Karen.  Talk about a challenge.  Guess what we stretched to?

Mike heckled my music all the time.  I teased him about secretly loving Beyonce and Rihanna and said I would gladly burn him some cds but he was a classic rock guy through and through.  His favorite was Rush.  I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to use Tom Sawyer in class for him but when all else fails in spin class, what do you do?  Seated climb.  He probably didn't realize it but I actually have 4 or 5 spin playlists created with him in mind.  He was always there, every Monday, and he deserved to get a break from girly pop music once in awhile.

When I taught spin class I would always remind people that this was their class and they had choices to accommodate their needs or fitness levels.  I reminded them of their options repeatedly and every time I said the word "options" I got a huge "Whooo-hooo!" from Mike, to whom I promptly told the options didn't apply.   Every single time, without fail.  I don't think he missed it one time.

A year ago Mike was diagnosed with cancer.  Way, way too young for that shit.  They began aggressively treating his cancer and because of that he took a leave of absence from the gym.  Every time I said the word "options" Kim was right there to take up the slack.  "Whooo-hooo!"  It made me smile every time.

I had the pleasure of having Mike come back to take a few more classes when he was feeling good enough before I quit the gym.  Mike wasn't there often after being diagnosed but when he was there it was because he wanted to get back to his routine.  He certainly wasn't trying to lose weight.  He was there because that was what you did on Monday at 4:30pm.  He did it because it was good for him.  He did it for the love of it. (Ok, so maybe I exaggerate his love for my classes but something brought him back.)  Coming back to spin class while undergoing treatment for a very aggressive kind of cancer?  That's badass.  And if he held back I couldn't tell.  Mike was a warrior.

I've spent a lot of the last 10 months recovering emotionally from my resignation at the gym.  I've been hurt and angry.  I felt used and unappreciated.  I felt unrewarded by management for all the hard work, heart and soul that I put in there and I've ultimately felt forgotten by those who said they would always be there for me even though we no longer worked together.  Sometimes I have felt that I wasted 4 years of my life and my energy to have it wind up so thankless.  What I have forgotten is that I was already rewarded ten-fold for the work I did there and the relationships I built.  It was not appreciation from management that was my compensation.  I was rewarded each and every time a member decided to spend an hour of their time with me.  You know they had options (whoo-hoo!) and they still showed up for my class.  They appreciated what I gave to them and they had no idea that what they were giving to me was of much greater importance that the sweaty butt crack I gave them.

I am privileged to have known each and every person who attended one of my classes and blessed me with their time.  I want to make sure they know how much it meant to me to see their faces every week, knowing that even when I didn't feel like going to work I would be so glad I was there by the time class ended.  I want to say thank you for what they gave to me before I don't have a chance to say it again.  Thank you.

Mike passed away today in his home surrounded by his family.  This world has lost one of the nicest men I have ever met in my life and the only consolation that I can see is that he's left behind two young men who are sure to follow in his footsteps of kindness.  Please save any condolences you may have for me and instead send out as much love and peace to Mike's wife, Kim, and their two sons, Josh and Tyler.  Their loss is great.

This song is for you, Mike.  The fan is yours.  Fly By Night, my friend.

Bitch Flap

Tomorrow is my 6 week post-op mark.  Time to celebrate.  Time to move on and get back to a normal, restriction-free life.  Time to feel super sexy and wear itty-bitty drawers.

Yeah, not so much.  I've got so far to go it's not even funny.  I knew this was going to be a tough surgery to recover from and I was prepared for it.  Or so I thought.  I totally underestimated how much it would impact me physically and emotionally.

So here's a brief update.  I've been drain free for 3 weeks and aside from a brief trip to the ER to rule out a blood clot in my leg I have had no complications.  My incision is pretty much all sealed up aside from about an inch worth of scab (pretty amazing considering my incision is 28" long) and I am getting by with just occasional Tylenol.  I'm still fairly swollen, especially at the end of the day, and my belly button still looks like I have a small bald man trapped in my stomach but the change is already pretty dramatic.  I'm starting to wear real clothes again, work more, move more and get out of the house more.  All good things, right?

So why am I such a hot mess still?  I'm struggling to put it into words.  I tried to explain the problems I was having and the major body issues I was struggling with to a friend the other night and she didn't get it. "But your stomach is flat now.  What's the problem?" I've only told a few people how I've been feeling and most think I'm absolutely nuts.  I'm going to try and do my best to explain because I think it's relevant to everything I've been working on to date.  But if you, too, think I'm off my rocker you may want to keep that tidbit to yourself.  I'm full up on disapproval right now.

Let's start with my appearance.  I've literally spent almost all of the 6 weeks in huge sweat pants, oversize baggy shirts, no make-up, tweezer-free and frizzy, unkempt hair mode .  You know, the natural look.

I had to wear a binder 24/7 around my mid-section for the first 3 weeks and then I graduated to compression shapewear like Spanx.  My worst fashion nightmare was realized when I had to go into a dressing room and attempt to stuff myself into and then peel myself out of high waisted girdle after girdle trying to find something that didn't make me want to cry and wasn't going to suffocate me, knowing whatever I picked I would have to wear 24 hours a day.  I was sweating and in pain and exhausted and literally went home to lie down after.  In the car ride home I just shook my head and said, "And can you believe I used to be a group fitness instructor?"  Spanx totally counts as a workout, right?

I went from working out 5-6 days a week to sweating when trying on Spanx or napping after a shower?  The fatigue was something I really underestimated.  I'm still struggling with it but it's getting better.  The worst part of it, though, is not having the exercise I'm used to to keep my head straight.  I felt like I was getting somewhere with this body gratitude stuff.  Two steps forward, five steps back.

Here's a tiny glimpse in to the last 6 weeks (ask my husband):

"Oh my God.  She took away all my curves.  I'm not curvy anymore.  Do I still look like I have hips? I look like I should be in the Texas Chainsaw movie with this scar. My legs look huge now.  I look like a freak.  Everywhere I go people will know I have had surgery because my stomach is flat and my legs are a ginormous.  I don't even look normal in pants. They fit my thighs but now the crotch is empty.  I have saggy crotch.  No one likes saggy crotch.  I could fit a whole penis in there now.  Seriously - do I still look curvy?"

Side note - in the midst of all this crazy a friend of mine posted a picture on his Facebook page that I took exception to.  He thought it was hilarious.  I told him it was asshole-ish.  This is the picture, except it had the caption, "Wingman of the Year".

I considered ignoring it but I really do like the guy enough to not want him to look like an asshole because I don't think he is one.  When he asked what my problem was with it and I told him it was obvious it was just one big fat joke he promptly blocked me from seeing anything on his page but not before I saw him call me a bitch to someone else.

Could I have lost my sense of humor during all this recovery time?  Perhaps.  Might I be over-sensitive because of my current battle with body issues?  It's definitely a possibility.  But I'm also a straight shooter (and he knows this and has appreciated it in the past) who has spent decades battling weight and years working with people battling their own weight issues.  And let's not forget that very early in this blog I swore I would always call a person out on a fat joke. Humorless bitch?  I take great offense to the humorless part.

You know what is funny?  I'm having what I've decided to call "Phantom Flap" issues. (Prior to surgery my son asked me, "What are you having surgery for again?  Oh yeah, you're having your flap removed.")  If you have ever had much of a belly you know the horrific moment when you feel your underwear slip down underneath your "flap" and you realize you'll have to find a private moment to try and excavate them from their depths.  Assuming you can still find them.  So I tell my friend (the same one mentioned previously who thinks I'm nuts) that I keep thinking I feel my underwear slip down below my flap and then I realize I have no flap and she text me a couple days later saying, "I've pulled my drawers out from my under my flap at least 30 times today and I've thought of you each time and cursed your name".  I almost spit my coffee on my phone.  I adore my friends.  Except for the asshole-ish ones.

I'm not writing this blog to get you to feel bad for me.  I know I asked for this and I should have known what I was getting into.  I'm writing to once again remind you (and myself) that the answer to feeling good about yourself and finding self-worth is not external.  Sure, those things help but they don't fix you.  I wasn't looking for this surgery to fix my self-worth issues at all.  I'm smarter than that and having been through a large weight loss and a different post-operative recovery I already knew this was a fact.  I guess I just didn't expect it to make me feel worse than before.  I did not anticipate going backwards.

Another good friend sent me an article called "What Losing 180 Pounds Really Does to Your Body - & Your Mind" by Jen Larsen that resonated with her and it made so much sense to me as well.  I did not have weight loss surgery but I actually sympathize greatly with the topic. (So much so I already bought her book and started it.)  I get her loss of "sense of self" and "sense of proportion".  One quote that resonated with me was this: "I thought my body was wrong when I was obese; I thought my body was wrong when I was thin past the point of health."  Granted, I'm no where near thin but just as I battled obsessive self-scrutiny when I lost weight the first time, I find myself doing it again now that I once more have changed my body into something unrecognizable to me.  I'm out of my normal routine, still trying to find myself at home in my own body with all the physical changes, not able to combat stress with exercise and I can't remember the last time I felt pretty.  Interestingly enough, I wasn't even able to use food as self-medication either.  I'm not sure if it was the pain medication or the exhaustion or the compression-wear but I did not have a normal appetite for quite awhile.  Definitely a blessing that I wasn't over-eating for stress relief but I wasn't doing anything else for relief either.  I spent a lot of time alone in my room inside my head.  NOT a good place to be.  Or worse yet, standing in front of a mirror magnifying every flaw I have in order not to stare directly at that scabby place on my body where 9 lbs of my own flesh used to be.

I probably still haven't explained this right or I've come off sounding like a self-absorbed asshat.  All I know is that I've gone backwards.  I've been battling feelings of depression, anxiety, unworthiness and they are all related to me not recognizing myself anymore and not feeling anywhere close to pretty.  My surgeon said this would be a doozy of a surgery.  Doozy, indeed.

On the "pretty" note I ran across this video and it hit home with me.  I wouldn't exactly say that poetry slamming is my thing but this is powerful.  And no matter how many times I watch it the last 60 seconds or so get me every time. (Warming - there's an F-bomb dropped at the end so be careful at work.)

 I sincerely hope you aren't reading my blog because you think I have the answers.  Clearly I don't.  But I'm looking for progress constantly and I want to share my experiences along the way with as much honesty as possible.  And this is where I'm at right now.  Surgery or no surgery, I still have so much work to do if a period of 6 weeks is enough to knock my self-worth back to square one.

Jen Larsen said "don't love yourself even though you're not perfect - love yourself because you have a body and it's worth loving and it is perfect."  So back to the drawing board for me.  I need to start practicing body gratitude again so you may see that pop up on my Facebook page.  Today I am grateful for my body's amazing ability to heal after I've abused it so egregiously.  I need to start moving every day again and I need to write more often.  I've got to get back to the work of finding my own worth again.  6 weeks is enough of a hiatus.

And I'm going to be doing it all over again but this time in itty-bitty drawers.  I may be a hot mess but that part worked out just fine.

Help Wanted

I got dressed all by myself today.  Even my underpants.  In my head I was totally hearing the jingle from the Pull-Ups commercial: "I'm a big kid now!"

For the past two and a half weeks since my surgery I have dealing with various degrees of helplessness.  Those first few days the only thing I could do by myself was go to the bathroom and trust me when I tell you I would have gladly paid someone to do it for me.  I couldn't get in and out of bed without help.  I couldn't get dressed.  I couldn't even make myself food.

I could also talk about how much I've battled with my mind over feelings of being unattractive, being useless, being replaceable and unnecessary but I probably won't much. Not today. There's still a part of me that worries what others will think about my decision to have this surgery and since it was elective it's hard to rationalize the feelings I've had.  I can't really feel sorry for myself if I asked for this, right?  If you've ever recovered from major surgery you know there is a pretty standard post-op depression that hits you regardless of whether the surgery was medically necessary or elective.  So in that regard I would say I'm nothing if not text book.

Today I have been thinking about the art of asking for help.  I'm horrible at it.  Down right awful.  It doesn't matter if it's emotional, physical or financial help that I need - the chances of me asking for it are slim to absolutely none.  I'd like to think that's the case because I'm severely independent.  And maybe because I'm amazingly tough and resilient.  A badass even.  Help schmelp.  I got this.

I don't like to ask for help because I don't want to owe anybody anything.  And because if I ask for help it means I wasn't good enough or perfect enough to take care of it myself.  And frankly, doing it all myself ensures that it will get done the way I'm used to and I don't have to step out of my little perfectionist comfort zone (read: defense mechanism) and be open to anyone else's ideas.  Here's is where being an over-achiever really shows it's down side.  Because you just simply can't always do it all.

Asking for help, needing someone, unable to do it all on my own - this is my vulnerability nightmare.

Enter me, buck ass naked, dripping wet from my first post-op shower, sliced open from hip to hip and three drainage tubes ends hanging from a makeshift necklace so they don't rip from my body and still bleeding and oozing from places.  I can't dry myself.  I can't dress myself.  And God forbid I drop those clean underpants on the floor before I manage to get them on.  Three feet never seemed so grand a distance until you can't bend over to pick something up. Trust me. I spent a couple of minutes staring at them once, calculating the acrobatics it would take to get them off the floor, before I called for help.  I was beaten by the underpants.  The big, giant, granny panty, cheap Wal-Marty underpants I bought just for this recovery.  You win high waisted briefs.  You win.

You really can't feel more vulnerable than that.  Even so, when you've been married as long as I have you learn to accept help from your spouse a little more easily than from others.  He's been a trooper these past couple of weeks and I'm eternally grateful.  This has been a messy, difficult and altogether unsexy recovery and he's put up with all of it without complaint.

The bigger problem lies with letting others help.  I have had numerous texts and calls and messages asking, "Do you need anything? Can I bring you anything? Can I make a meal?".

Funny enough, I know there's no better feeling than to know you have helped someone. "What can I do to help?" is always the first thing out of my mouth when something happens to someone I care about.  More often then not I frantically race to organize a meal train for the family of a friend who just had emergency surgery or raise some money or supplies for an employee who's home burned down or flowers for a friend who just lost her baby.  But this isn't for selfless reasons.  It's totally selfish in that it calms that "Oh my God, I have to do something to help" feeling that makes me feel so useless.  Nothing cures a feeling of uselessness than organizing a meal train.  I promise.

Which reminds me that a friend offered to organize a meal train for my family after learning of my upcoming surgery.  I declined.  How could I accept a meal train for an elective cosmetic surgery?  I mean, the nerve of people wanting to help and wanting to feel better for having done so?  Guess who spent 9 hours in the kitchen making 18 freezer meals for her family rather than asking for help?

What does it say about me that I don't want others to also be comforted by being helpful just as I have been comforted?  I can say it's a pride issue but I'd be lying.  It's actually more about fear.  I'm afraid to let others in and to need them because in the needing I'm vulnerable to being hurt again by those that I need most.  Simple as that.  And if I refuse to ask for help when I need it most does it change the meaning behind the help that I give to others?  I'm starting to think maybe it does.

This morning I listened to a TED talk from this years conference by musician Amanda Palmer on the subject of The Art of Asking.  She spoke of her experience turning her music over to the public for free and asking for help in the way of crowd funding instead of relying on her unsupportive record label. She ended up succeeding with the biggest music crowd funding project to date.  When asked how she was able to make people pay for her music she said, "The real answer is I didn't make them. I asked them. And through the very act of asking people I connected with them. And when you connect with people, people want to help you."

If you have read my past blogs you know that I am working very hard to deal with feelings of shame and unworthiness.  And you also know I've learned that connection with others and garnering empathy is the first way to defeating shame.  The only way to do those things is to be vulnerable.  For me, today, that means asking for help. (See - I'm still on topic - just had to go round the outside for a bit to find my way back to it.)

It doesn't matter if you are battling depression, illness or financial troubles.  You could be feeling overwhelmed with your work and not sure how to delegate.  You may be feeling like a failure as a parent because you just can't do it all.  Or you may be struggling to do something as simple as dry yourself off after a shower.  It doesn't matter how easy or difficult the task if it feels like you can't do it alone. Relying solely on yourself and never asking for help is most certainly the quickest path to feeling like a failure when you don't succeed. Lena Horne once said, "It's not the load that breaks you down; it's the way you carry it". Maybe that load won't feel so difficult if you let someone else carry the heavy end for a bit.

The point is - ask for help.  Let those that love you in so that they can feel useful.  It's a form of generosity to allow them to do so and feel good knowing they made a difference.  You'll be happy to know I've accepted several meals for my family.  And the help I've cherished the most is that of my friends and family who have just offered to visit and spend some time with me during my recovery.  What a boon to my spirit. Thank you so much.

Some may say that asking for help is a blow to their pride. I would argue that asking for help actually builds your pride rather than detracts from it.  It makes you stronger. You may feel weak at first but, with the help of someone that loves you, in no time you will be strong enough to put your underwear on all by yourself like a big kid.  And that's something to be proud of.